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Drifting down from the low hanging clouds, the snow seemed to be set for the day. It had been going non-stop for an hour now, and the city of Edinburgh was starting to look pristine in its virginal coat. The flakes piled up over the tramworks on the main street, softening the large holes. The streets were still thronged with people, all ignoring the bright lights and warmth of the shops, in favour of flocking to the East Princes Street Gardens.
Hawkeye was cold and sore. No matter how many adjustments he made, some part of the Scott monument was digging into his spine. The ornate architecture may have been ideal cover for a sniper, but they were fucking uncomfortable. The icy breeze whistling around didn’t help. Neither did the icicle above him starting to melt and drip down the back of his neck, right where the leather didn’t cover.
Why hadn’t he volunteered to be the one on the ground, shaking hands and making nice? Oh yes, he had, and had been shot down in flames. Something about not wanting to cause a diplomatic incident.
Instead, it was Cap down there, making nice with Captain Britain. While he had been perched on this bloody uncomfortable monument for the past four hours, and couldn’t feel his ass. Or his feet for that matter.
Hawkeye checked his sightlines again, simply for something to do, before focusing on the bright splashes of red, white and blue that were the superheroes.
As if on cue, the communications link crackled into life.
“Don’t even think about it, Agent Barton,”
“Spoilsport,” but Hawkeye was glad to hear the voice of his handler. If nothing else, needling Agent Coulson would take his mind off the cold.
“There’s a mean looking squirrel sitting just behind Cap. I’m sure the bastard is giving him the evil eye. Usually I’m not in favour to cruelty to the small and furry, but Cap doesn’t need to be mauled today.”
“No, Agent Barton,” Coulson said firmly. “Any other threats?”
“Unless you count mothers with babies desperate for a kiss to get their faces in the papers, no. Three on them, at Britain’s two.”
“I see them,” and Black Widow spoke up. “Diverting them.”
Hawkeye flexed his free fingers, trying to get the blood flow going back to them. Heated gloves would be a blessing right now, but Tony hadn’t managed to construct a pair that was thin enough yet.
After today, Clint was quite prepared to make a nuisance of himself until they were done.
He sneezed, sharply and abruptly, and a particularly spiky bit of ornamentation made its acquaintance with his back as he rocked backwards.
“Fuck,” he swore, twisting a little to try and resettle himself.
“Pardon, Agent Barton?”
“The architecture wants my babies, Coulson,” Hawkeye replied flippantly. “It keeps feeling me up.”
He sniffed, trying to clear his nose which had unexpectedly clogged up again, and winced as another icy drip made it’s way down the back of his neck.
“What’s your status, Barton?” and there was a slight softening of Coulsons tone over the airwaves, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know of the relationship. This was Phil talking now, Clint’s best friend and lover, not the hard-as-nails, oh-my-god-he-laughed-write-it-on-the-calendar Agent Coulson.
“Just peachy,” Hawkeye replied, and heard the faint rasp in his voice. He cleared his throat. “Just get the fucking ceremony over before I turn into a Hawkcicle. You wouldn’t spend seventy years looking to defrost me, would you?”
There was a genteel snort of muffled laughter, and Hawkeye spotted Cap’s lips twitching suspiciously.
The whispered ‘I would,’ from Phil on a private channel did more to warm Hawkeye than any raging fire could.
~~~~~~
The warmth of the hotel hit Clint as he stepped through the doors. It tingled against his cheeks, prickling across his pores as he started to defrost.
He didn’t bother to wait for the elevator, instead taking the stairs two at a time, feeling a shiver knocking along his spine. A sneeze brewing tickled his sinuses and he halted, poised in motion, waiting to see if it was developing.
It came suddenly, doubling him over. Luckily it was dry, rasping against the back of his throat, but not spraying the wall with mucus.
“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head as if to stave off anything else, feeling the wet leather of his uniform catching his skin.
The door to the suite was partially ajar, and Clint reached out to press his palm against the wood. A sneeze tore suddenly through him, and he doubled over again, banging his forehead off the door.
There was a startled noise within the room, and Agent Coulson pulled the door open, even as Clint straightened, trying to look as though he meant to do that. Their eyes met, and Clint read the concern as Coulson shifted to Phil.
“You look like shit,” Phil said.
“I love you too,” Clint replied, poking his own forehead to see if it had bruised.
“I think the door took it worse,” and Phil had a note of good-humour in his voice as he pulled Clint into the room, and kicked the door closed. “Let’s get you out of your clothes.”
The suite was one of the more palatial at the hotel. A warm fire danced on the hearth, beneath a solid oak mantel. The walls were papered red, which Natasha had commentated would hide the blood. Snow still drifted down past the full-length windows that were only partly shuttered. This high up, there was little chance of voyeurism, until Tony was feeling particularly perverted.
“Are you propositioning me, Agent?” Clint asked.
“Just taking care of one of my best assets,” Phil replied, carefully peeling off the layers. Clint joined in as best he could with his half defrosted fingers, until he stood naked as the day he was born.
Phil was arranging the clothing by the fire to dry, and Clint took a step towards the bed.
“Bath,” Phil said without turning around, and not for the first time, Clint wondered just how his lover had eyes in the back of his head.
“So you don’t want to ravish me?” and Clint tried to put a whine in his voice. Phil didn’t turn around, but pointed towards the bathroom.
Clint laughed, and turned in mid-step, feeling his feet sinking into the thick, plush carpet. He felt Phil’s eyes on him, and tried to add an extra swing to his hips. The inarticulate grunt he received made him adjust his mental scoreboard.
Clint: 1, Coulson:0
The bathroom was filled with steam and the scent of sandalwood. The polished white tiles were dripped with condensation, and the heat in the room enveloped Clint as he stepped inside. The bath was full of water, steam rising in lazy coils.
Sliding his foot into the water, Clint bit back a hiss as the heat stabbed into his leg, burning for a moment before settling into a deliciously warm ache. The rest of his body seemed to chill in comparison, and Clint wasted no time at all in climbing in.
The water lapped around him, soothing and warming. Clint let himself sink lower, stretching out till his chin was just resting on top of the water. He closed his eyes and let the tension spill out of him. Safe. Warm. Loved.
That scratchy feeling was back again, lingering in the back of his throat, but even that wasn’t enough to distract him from the pleasures of the hot water. Movement to his left, and Hawkeye didn’t even have to open his eyes to identify Phil, entering the room.
He felt the steam eddy around his face, and cracked open one eye to see Phil leaning over the edge of the bath, looking amused.
“You must have been a hippo in a past life,” Phil teased. “Never seen such a water baby.”
“That’s our secret,” Clint replied, and sneezed again, making the water surge and splash. “You could at least compare me to a crocodile.”
“Not scaly enough,” and Phil reached out and ran his hand down the side of Cilnt’s face, forehead to chin.
“You’re running a slight temperature,” he said thoughtfully.
“It’s the bath water,” Clint said dismissively.
“You’re sneezing.”
“I’m allergic to Edinburgh.”
Phil just stared at him, and Agent Coulson was back, the man who would not be denied. When he was in the right mood, that look would do wonders for Clint’s libido, but since he was currently submerged in water, it just made him a little tetchy.
He didn’t snap though. Phil was just worried about him. It was cute, and he could put up with a little bit of fussing if it made Phil happy.
Phil rose from the side of the bath, with an affectionate grin, and busied himself in a cupboard, lifting out fluffy white towels and hanging them over the radiator to warm. Clint let his eyes slide shut again, and enjoyed the sensation of the water swirling against him.
He must have dozed off in the heat, because the next thing he knew, Phil was shaking his shoulder gently. The water lapping around him was cooler now, and the steam had dissipated.
“Up you come, water baby,” Phil proffered a towel.
Clint shook his head to clear out the cobwebs that seemed to have taken up residence just behind his eyes, and hooked the plug out of the bath with his toes. The water gurgled away down the drain as Clint gripped the side of the bath and hauled himself upright. The water sheeted down the length of his body, trickling over the long lean planes of his body, and over his muscles.
The warm towel enveloped him as Coulson stepped forward and wrapped it around him, the fibres soft against his wet skin.
“Feeling better?” Phil asked.
Clint considered. The annoying tickle in his throat had gone away now, but the cobwebby feeling was still persisting behind his eyes. Nothing serious though, and it didn’t seem to be stopping his ability to think.
“Yeah,” he replied.
Phil looked at him measuringly, as if to ascertain the truth of the answer. He raised one hand as if to test Clint’s temperature again, but Clint deflected it.
“Don’t you want to be pampered a little?” Phil tried another tack, his lower lip sticking out in a pronounced pout.
Clint burst out laughing at the absurdity of the expression, and at the sight of his lover trying to cajole him.
“Fine,” he gave in, and was hit in the face by another fluffy towel.
No clothes were forthcoming when Clint pulled the towel away from his face, only a thick black robe hanging on the back of the door. Phil had vanished back into the main room, and there were now some mysterious chinking noises coming from that direction.
Dropping the towels casually to the floor, Clint wrapped himself in the robe and strolled out of the bathroom, hands casually in pockets. The sheets on the glorious four-poster bed were turned back, and Clint could see the glowing red light of the electric under blanket. He wasn’t quite sure why Phil was spoiling him and pampering him this way, but why argue with a good thing?
The mysterious chinking noise was apparently hot chocolate being stirred. Phil knelt by the hearth, hands busy with a tray. Clint spared a moment to admire the form of the man, backlit by the flames. The black jacket was hung up over the back of the couch, the tie was hanging loose, and the shirtsleeves were rolled up. Phil looked calm, relaxed, and so very handsome.
The bed was warm as Clint slid under the sheets, robe discarded, pressing his hips down firmly into the soft and yielding mattress. The pillows were stacked three high and he leaned back into them. Heat radiated into his bones, and Clint let out a sigh of satisfaction.
The warm, velvety aroma of the chocolate hit him, as Phil deftly slid into position next to him, balancing the tray, and not spilling a drop. Besides the two tall mugs of chocolate, there was a little pot of whipped cream adorned with two flakes.
“They call this a hot chocolate with attitude,” Phil noted, as he pulled the blankets up over the sheets, smoothing them down over Clint’s skin, tucking them around his hips. “Cures all ills.”
“Want to tell me what this is about?” Clint tried asking again, even as he wrapped his hands around the mug, barely feeling the warmth of it through his archers calluses.
“You amaze me sometimes,” and it was a curious mix of Phil and Coulson speaking. “You were up on the monument from before sunrise, in the snow and ice. And you, Agent Barton, never seriously complained. It was a shitty job, but you did it. Someone has to show you how much you’re appreciated.”
“Mm,” said Clint, with his chocolate moustache firmly in place.
“Besides, you’re a bear when you’re sick. This way, we might fend pneumonia off.”
“I’d hit you for that, but I’m too warm,” Clint said, letting his eyes droop shut, and his head fall to rest on Phil’s shoulder. He felt rather than saw the other mans arm wrap around him, pulling him close. The other hand removed the mug of hot chocolate before it could spill.
Lying there, between the borders of sleep, cocooned in the warmth and love of Phil Coulson, Clint Barton let himself truly relax.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The snow was still falling as they boarded the Stark jet at the airport. Since this was a diplomatic trip, Tony had offered the services of one of his private jets, rather than use the cramped Quinjet.
Clint didn’t object to the comfort, but he had woken up that morning with a bout of sneezing, and his throat was raw. Phil had been shooting him worried looks until forced to stop by the need to organise the logistics of travel.
Finding a relatively quiet seat, Clint sunk into it and tried to not feel the pressure in his sinuses. He tuned out the chatter of his team-mates and settled for feeling miserable. He knew that he was being rude when he ignored Cap’s questions, but the pain in his throat made replying difficult anyway.
He slept.
The wheels bumping on tarmac brought him back to reality, and Clint opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. The cabin swam in his vision, hazy at the edges. Everything seemed off kilter, tilted slightly, and he found himself adjusting his head so that everything would stay in its proper place.
His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, pressing outwards from his brain and making his skin throb. His sinuses were full, and he could barely breath through his noise. His throat was raw, and when he tried to speak, only a growl emerged.
He felt too warm, to uncomfortable, sweat prickling across his skin under the t-shirt and trousers. But the air was almost too cold, and he was trapped in this peculiar bubble of hot against cold.
He felt awful.
“Chicken soup,” Steve said firmly.
“Vodka,” Natasha added her own suggestion.
Clint hadn’t realised that he had closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, his friends were gathered around them. Tony was looking amused, Bruce was keeping his distance. Thor was looking confused, while Steve and Natasha discussed with each other the best way to tackle a flu.
It was annoying, especially as each word pounded into his head like one of his own arrows, piercing his eardrums and making them flare with a rhythmic pain.
He gathered himself to stand, to make them all stop talking around him and over him, instead of to him. Unfortunately, his legs chose that moment to do their best impression of limp noodles, and it was only the enhanced reflexes of Steve that prevented Clint from doing a face plant into the floor.
There was a growl that might have been swearing, had his throat been in better condition.
“You know that if you don’t stop gawping, no matter how good your intentions, Hawkeye is going to make your lives a living hell when he’s better,” and the voice of Agent Coulson broke up the party. Hanging limply in Steve’s arms, Clint wanted Coulson to talk more, as his was the only voice that didn’t pound in his head.
“I’ve got this,” Coulson continued, and Clint felt himself being caught by another set of hands, and eased upright. The wool in his head was making it hard to think, and his anger at himself for getting sick wasn’t helping. Phil’s concerned eyes looked at him from Agent Coulsons face.
“Let’s get you home,” he said.
If you asked Clint later how long it took to travel from the airfield to the tower, he couldn’t have told you. He was too busy trying to keep his sinuses from exploding. The journey took place in a series of coherent flashes, from the plane to the car, from the car to just past Sixth Street, and then from the garage at the tower. Everything in-between was just a blur of motion and pain.
The one constant was Phil. Whether on the phone organising something, or just there as a shoulder to lean on, Phil was there for him. He was there right by his side in the lift up to the living area, he was there down the hallways to the room they shared.
Phil was there to help him into bed, was there to tuck the sheets around him. Phil was there to set a box of tissues beside the bed, and to wet a washcloth to clean the sweat from Clint’s forehead. And all without a word. Phil didn’t seem worried about catching this flu, settling in beside Clint, cuddling in close and comforting.
Clint enjoyed it too much to argue with him.
The days passed in a haze of tissues, tea, and comforting warmth. Cling dozed off and on again, or just lay there, letting the virus wreak its havoc on his body.
Until he woke one morning, and the room held still. His nose was clearer now, and so was his head. And the delicious scent of something cooking make his mouth water and his stomach rumble.
“You are awake!” boomed a voice through the open door. Thor, resplendent in grey jogging bottoms and no shirt, stepped inside, grinning from ear to ear.
“Remember what we said about inside voices?” Natasha added to Thor, as she stepped inside, immaculate in black, with not a hair out of place. With a bad case of bed-head, Clint was a little jealous.
“He has vanquished the virus that has sorely beset him,” Thor said, a little quieter. “Surely this is a cause for celebration?”
“If it gets me out of this bed, I’m game,” Clint chimed in.
Clint mused that of all the strange sights in his life, Tony Stark wearing a frilly pink apron and dismembering a chicken would come close to the top of the list.
Steve Rogers wore his blue apron better, conscientiously cutting vegetables into neat and precise chunks.
And Phil Coulson, standing over a steaming pot, stirring with intent, was still a beautiful sight.
Chicken soup. Warmth spiralled through Clint’s veins as he watched the Avengers working together. Because of him. For him. Natasha rested one hand on the small of his back, knowing without words what this meant.
“Thank you,” Clint said hoarsely.